Book 4 of the "Secrets and Vows"
(The books do not have to be read in order.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Margery Welles is a favorite of the king, and he gifts her
with an immense dowry and the choice of her own husband. She’s not sure she
even wants to marry, because of the secret haunting her. With hordes of suitors
eager for a wealthy bride arriving to court her, and the king’s deadline approaching,
Margery feels trapped by her dilemma—until the arrival of her long-lost friend
Gareth Beaumont, who’s matured into a fearsome knight, a man she’s powerfully
attracted to.

Since childhood, Gareth has sworn to defend Margery, even
though he’d been forced to leave England many years ago. But upon learning that
she’s in danger, Gareth risks everything to return and act as her bodyguard,
even as he pretends to be just another suitor. They both agree their attraction
should go no farther, but can the heat of desire growing between them make
Gareth long to stay for good?

Note: This book was previously published as My Lady’s
Guardian. This edition has been enhanced with photos, audio, and author notes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reviews

"Settle back and enjoy the fast-paced, engaging, emotional and sensual tale of a knight and his lady."Romantic Times Magazine

"A fun and rewarding story, with just enough intrigue and passion added for spice."Romance Reader Reviews

"Gareth and Margery are characters to remember."Affaire de Coeur Magazine

"...fans will
relish a tale that highlights the thrilling heart-thumping elements
that make historical romances so enjoyable." Book Browser Review

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Excerpt

(The following is the property of the author and Avon Books, and cannot
be
copied or reprinted without permission.)

Prologue

England, 1475

Through his narrow window,
twelve-year-old squire Gareth Beaumont watched the inner ward burn. The night
was dark, lit only by the flames. The shrieks of women and children, the groans
of men as they fought the blaze, filled the air.

He had seen this in his nightmares
and his waking visions. Everything had been muddled, but the fires had raged in
his mind for days. He should have known it meant attack.

He wanted to bang his head against
the wall to shake out these incomprehensible visions that haunted him. But he
couldn’t escape his legacy, the Beaumont Curse.

Now Wellespring Castle’s stables
and outbuildings were alive with flames. It was just like his parents’ fate all
over again: they’d died three years before in a fire, leaving Gareth with
nothing but painful memories.

But at least this time he could do
something. He flung open the door to his room and raced down the corridor.

The inner ward was a nightmare of
smoke and flames, and the screams of horses and men. The gatehouse held firm,
keeping out the invaders, while fire illuminated the archers manning the
battlements. At the stables, Gareth joined the line of men passing buckets of
water from the well to the fire.

His eyes watered from the smoke,
and his lungs ached with the need for fresh air. Although his skin was hot, a
sudden chill of foreboding worked through him. Not now!

The vision began as but a sound, a
child’s sob. Sometimes he could pretend he didn’t see the visions. It made the
headaches worse, but that was better than knowing useless information he couldn’t
understand.

But this time he knew who it
was—Margery Welles, the eight-year-old daughter of the viscount.

In the mists of his mind he saw her
impish face contort in a scream of terror. She wasn’t with the women, as she
was supposed to be.

He broke from the line of men and
raced through the inner ward, dodging soldiers. He finally saw Lord Welles by
the gatehouse. The viscount was a tall, broad man with gray peppering his dark
hair, and a craggy face that always looked in control.

Gareth came to a stop before him,
coughing from the smoke. “My lord, your daughter—I fear she’s in danger.”

The firelit ward retreated as he was
caught in the formidable gaze of Lord Welles. They stared at each other, and
for an instant, fear touched his lordship’s eyes.

“Gareth, she is with the women. Do
you know otherwise?”

Before Gareth could respond, he
heard a great rending of wood and a sharp crack.

Lord Welles caught his arm and
dragged him away from the swarm of soldiers who rushed to defend the gatehouse.
“Baron Hunter and his men have broken through the first doors. There will be a
battle. Saints above, I wish my sons were here—but you will do. Get Margery
away.”

“But my lord, how—”

Lord Welles leaned into Gareth’s
face and spoke in a hoarse, urgent voice. “Take her into the undercroft below
the great hall. You’ll find a stack of barrels in the north corner, and a
hidden tunnel beneath them. Lead Margery out into the forest and await my word.”

“I’ll find the women and take them
all—”

“Margery first!” Lord Welles said,
grabbing Gareth’s arms and giving him a quick shake. “If you get her out to the
forest before the castle itself is invaded, then you may return for others. I
can’t take the chance that Margery could be harmed. You must protect her. Promise
me!”

“O-of course, my lord,” he
stammered.

“Now go!”

When Gareth searched the great hall
and didn’t find her, he knew Margery would go where she felt safest. He found
her alone in her bedchamber, leaning out a window to watch the destruction
below. He hauled her away from it and closed the shutters, weak with relief at
having found her unharmed.

She looked at him solemnly, all
dark hair and wide blue eyes. She wore white billowy nightclothes. “My father
will win, won’t he, Gareth?”

“Of course,” he gasped, still
breathing hard. He found garments hung on pegs and brought them to her. “But he
wants me to take you to a safe place.”

“You have to leave while I—”

Ignoring her protests, Gareth
pulled her smock over her head. She was soon dressed and well-wrapped in a
cloak. He led her down through the levels of the castle to one of the entrances
to the undercroft. He lifted the trap door, grabbed a torch off the wall, and
descended into the darkness below the main level, holding her hand.

Wooden beams arched overhead,
dripping cobwebs. Barrels of salted meat and foodstuffs were stacked high. He
led Margery to the north corner and had her hold the torch while he started to
drag barrels away.

“Gareth, what are you looking for? A
hidden treasure?”

“A secret tunnel.” Above them, he
suddenly heard the pounding of many booted feet and a distant scream. He threw
himself at the next barrel. Where was the tunnel?

He glanced at Margery. He could see
tears glistening in her eyes but still she held the torch high.

As he dragged a fifth barrel aside,
Gareth heard the clash of steel over their heads. By the saints, was the entire
castle overrun? In despair, he realized he wouldn’t be able to rescue the other
women. If he tried he would most certainly be captured, and Margery would be
alone.

Lord Welles’s words echoed through
his mind. You must protect her.

Gareth would prove himself worthy
of his lord’s trust. He would never let any harm come to Margery.

Feeling a sudden draft of cold air
at his feet, he shoved the last barrel aside and saw the outline of a trap
door. When he lifted it, dust and dirt billowed through the air.

He quickly took the torch and led
her down a short staircase. The tunnel was made of earth and damp rock, carved
out of the ground, braced with rotting wood. When they’d walked at least a
hundred paces, tree roots began to poke through the ceiling. Soon all he had to
do was push past the roots of a tree, and they were in the forest.

He knew they were only a few
hundred yards from the castle. He could hear shouts, weapons clashing, and the
hissing roar of fire. He put his arms around Margery and led her back into the
tunnel.

He used the sputtering torch to
light a small fire near the entrance. Still kneeling, he turned and saw her
gazing bleakly back down the tunnel.

Gareth didn’t know the first thing
about comforting a little girl. Feeling awkward, he held out his hand and she
took it, crouching beside him. She stared into the fire as one tear slid down
her cheek. Swept by a feeling of tenderness, he put his arm around her. She
leaned into him.

“What else did Father tell you?”
she murmured.

“He told me to keep you safe, and
that he would send for you as soon as he could.”

“You won’t leave me?” She turned
teary, pleading eyes up to him. “You’re always trying to get away from me.”

He hugged her closer and pushed the
tangle of hair from her eyes. “This isn’t like our games,” he said, feeling a
stab of guilt. “I promise I won’t leave you.”

~oOo~

Gareth awoke to the chirping of
birds outside in the forest as the sun rose.

With a gasp, Margery sat up
straight. “Father?”

“Not yet,” he said reluctantly. “Are
you hungry?”

She shook her head.

“Of course you’re hungry. Do you
know how to fish?”

She looked at him out of the corner
of her eye, and he saw some of her liveliness return. “I tried to follow you
the last time, but you sent me home.”

He sighed, feeling another ache of
guilt. “Your voice scared away the fish. I’ll wager you still can’t be quiet.”

She gave him a teasing glare and
shoved him aside. “You just show me how to fish, Gareth Beaumont.”

He dug his fishing hooks and string
from the pouch at his belt, and soon they were lying side by side on the
embankment of a small creek, dangling their hooks in the water.

Gareth pulled in a small, wriggling
trout.

Margery lifted her chin. “I shall
get a bigger one.”

He barely kept from smiling. “I’d
like to see you try.”

And try she did. He was impressed,
even as he cooked his own fish. She perched on the embankment, fishing
mightily, ignoring him as he smacked his lips and ate his trout. He saved half
for her.

He needn’t have. Soon she caught
her own fish, and it was bigger, just as she promised. She took it off the
hook, learned how to remove the bones, and even cooked it herself, though she
burned her fingers before she was through.

Side by side, they knelt at the
edge of the brook and cleaned the fish smell from their hands. Something
suddenly glittered beneath the surface. Gareth grasped the object and rose to
his feet for the best light. It was just a gray stone, but imbedded in the
center was a cloudy piece of crystal that caught the rays of the sun. Margery
reached for it in delight, laughing.

In her haste, she knocked it from
his hand, and it bounced along the rocky edge of the brook. As Margery picked
up the two pieces of the broken stone, her breath caught on a muffled sob. Gareth
knew that her grief had little to do with the stone.

“Margery, look, ’tis just as shiny
as ever. And now there’s a piece for each of us, so we can remember today.”

She looked at the two stones, then
gave one to him. When she lifted her face, he felt his heart give a painful
lurch at the redness of her nose and eyes.

“I shall keep this always,” he
said.

A smile tugged at one corner of her
lips, and she clenched the shining stone tightly in her fist.

His gaze rose over her head in the
direction of Wellespring Castle and he tried to mask his worry. If he could
keep Margery busy, she wouldn’t have time to be afraid.

For three days, they waited for
word from Lord Welles. They slept in a bed of leaves in the tunnel by night,
and played games of survival by day. He taught her to snare rabbits, then how
to cook them. They played hiding games in the forest, moving from tree to tree
in an attempt to outwit each other. He made two pouches, so they could each
carry their crystal stone on their belts. She was his first friend, and he
pretended that someday when she found out about the Beaumont Curse, she wouldn’t
care.

On the fourth day, they heard
soldiers riding through the forest. Gareth retreated to a little fort they’d
built high in the trees and held Margery close. Hoarse voices called her name.

“’Tis my brothers!” she said in
relief.

He found himself rubbing the
crystal stone in its pouch at his waist and waited for her to climb down to her
family, leaving him alone once more.

She took his hand. “Will you still
be my friend when we go back?”

“Forever.” The word reverberated
through his soul like a blood vow. He had discovered what it was like to be a
man, to take care of someone.

She descended from their perch and
into the waiting arms of her brother Reynold, only three years older than
Gareth. James Markham, Earl of Bolton, not yet twenty, watched Gareth closely
as he reached the ground.

“My lords,” Gareth said, bowing his
head stiffly. “I hope all is well at the castle.”

They hesitated, and he knew in that
moment that his visions, though unclear, had not betrayed him.

Margery pulled away from Reynold. “Father?”

Her brothers looked grim.

“Not Father!” she cried. “But where
is Edmund?”

“He is fine,” Reynold said as she
buried her face in his tunic and sobbed. “He is with Father’s body.”

Gareth’s chest felt tight as he
watched her tears. Reynold guided his horse out of the clearing, taking Margery
away.

James looked Gareth over. “When we
arrived home, we searched the castle for Margery and found the tunnel open. How
did you know to escape?”

He could hardly say that strange
visions haunted him. “Your stepfather told me about the tunnel, Lord Bolton. He
asked me to keep her safe.”

“My thanks to you,” James said
grudgingly.

“How did your stepfather die?”

“An arrow. We lost five soldiers,
and others are wounded—but Hunter will never bother us again. I shall go to the
king with this treachery.”

Gareth soon came to realize that
Margery’s brothers did not quite believe his story. Within a week he was sent
to another household to finish his fostering. Surely Margery would tell her
brothers that it was all a mistake, that Gareth was her friend, that his
knowledge had not been gained by betraying them to their enemies.

But Margery’s brothers never came
back for him.

Chapter 1

June, 1487

Gareth Beaumont gasped for air and
came up on his elbows, wide awake in an instant. He bumped his head on the tent
pole, and a shower of water leaked inside to splatter across his face. He
ignored it, staring into the murky darkness, the dream still fresh.

Margery.

The old bitterness welled up in his
mind. Her brothers had abandoned him, setting his life on a path of desperation
and loneliness.

He breathed deeply, trying to calm
his pounding heart. ’Tis just a dream, not a vision.

But he knew better. A dull ache
groaned to life behind his forehead, and his stomach gurgled with queasiness. It
was a vision all right, of Margery Welles—whom he hadn’t seen in twelve years.

She was in danger again.

He sat up, resting his head in his
hands. She was not his concern; she had brothers to take care of her problems. Besides,
she must be married already, even have children.

The past was dead, and he could
never go back to it. Why would he want to? He certainly knew early in life that
he could count on no one but himself. At his final foster home, he’d been
jeered at, called Warfield’s Wizard because of the visions he couldn’t control.
To earn respect, he’d become a fierce fighter. It kept people away, just like
he wanted, and it also kept him from starving.

But he had become too good at his
craft, and the noblemen tired of losing. He’d been forced to leave England when
he was no longer allowed to enter tournaments. He’d done some mercenary work in
France these past few years, but his name and his curse had followed him even
there. He had no land of his own, no family, no money. He was so close to
poverty that he could smell the stench. The only things he hadn’t sold were his
armor and his horse, because without them, he had no chance of earning a
living.

By the saints, why did he have to
be reminded of Margery after all these years? He wanted to ignore this vision
of danger. She already had a family, and none of them needed Gareth.

He had a sudden memory of looking
into the intense gaze of her father, Lord Welles. He was the one man who had
ever treated Gareth fairly.

And Gareth had promised the old man
he’d always protect his daughter.

With an angry curse, he lay back on
his blanket. Lord Welles deserved his loyalty, but his children did not. Yet he
would go to Margery and find this danger that awaited her. He would do what was
necessary to satisfy his oath, and then he would leave.

~oOo~

The sun blazed down on the rolling
hillsides and low stone walls of Gloucestershire. In the distance, Gareth could
see the bright spires of a castle glittering atop a hill. Hawksbury Castle. As
usual, Margery and her family owned the best. He tried to put aside his
resentment; only his oath to Lord Welles mattered.

Gareth’s horse plodded into the
shadows of a cool wooded glen, and he could no longer see the castle. He
glanced at Wallace Desmond, who for once wasn’t eyeing him suspiciously. Gareth
had known it was foolish to approach this unknown danger alone, but he hated
asking anyone for help. Wallace owed Gareth for saving his life at a
tournament. When Gareth called in the favor, Wallace had been willing to return
to his homeland to help the woman from Gareth’s past.

Though the day was unusually bright
for England, Gareth felt a sudden cold chill move through him. He’d spent his
whole life trying to ignore such warnings, but now he heeded it.

They were near Margery.

He pulled back on the reins, and
his horse danced to a halt. He cocked his head, eyeing the woods all around
them.

“Wallace, go on ahead. Hawksbury
Castle is not far.”

Wallace leaned on his pommel and
stared at him with narrowed eyes. “What is going on, Beaumont?”

“Nothing.” Wallace was ignorant of
his visions, and Gareth planned to keep it that way as long as possible. Not
for the first time, he wondered why generations of a family had been cursed for
one ancestor’s crime. “I just need a moment to think on what I will say to
Margery.”

Wallace grinned. “Nervous about a
mere woman?”

Gareth said nothing. The longer he
traveled with Wallace, the more talkative the man had become. Gareth didn’t
need friends.

“Very well,” Wallace said. “I’ll
leave you to your peace. Who knows, the fair Margery might take a liking to me.”

Margery Welles circled the
clearing, keeping the stone bench between herself and a grinning Thomas Fogge. For
the third time that day, she cursed her foolishness. Why ever had she thought
he was different from all the others—different from Peter Fitzwilliam? Taking
Lord Fogge to one of her favorite peaceful places had been the height of
stupidity. Now she was forced to fend off his advances, when all she’d wanted
to do was talk.

“Lord Fogge, I insist we go back to
the castle.”

“Mistress Welles—Margery,” he said,
with an ingratiating smile that showed his blackened teeth, “I am so enjoying
our private visit. How else can you come to know me?”

“Then seat yourself, my lord, and
we will converse.”

Lord Fogge leaned one way. Margery
went the opposite way, and found herself against his chest.

“Margery, I ache for one of your
kisses. Just one.”

She leaned back in his embrace and
turned her face away, but she felt his hot breath on her neck. She had been in
this situation one too many times this last month. Why hadn’t she learned by
now that every eligible man in England considered her fair game? And yet, what
choice did she have? The days were flying by at too fast a pace, and soon the
king would need an answer.

Margery felt his mouth on her cheek
and grimaced. Just as she was about to bring up her knee and end his lordship’s
kiss with pain, Lord Fogge abruptly released her. As she stumbled back against
the bench, she realized that he had not willingly let her go. He was caught in
the grip of a stranger—a much larger, broader man, who punched him hard in the
stomach.

With a groan, Lord Fogge doubled
over and staggered against a tree trunk. The stranger grabbed him again, and Lord
Fogge covered his head and whimpered.

“Let him go,” Margery said.

The stranger ignored her. His fist
connecting with Lord Fogge’s chin snapped the man’s head back.

“That is enough!” she cried,
grasping the stranger’s arm. She stumbled as his arm came forward, but hung on
grimly. “You’ve disabled him. He will not be so foolish again.”

The stranger abruptly released Lord
Fogge, who reeled sideways, blood dripping from his lower lip. Without a glance
at Margery, his lordship darted through the trees toward where they’d left the
horses. But she soon forgot him when the stranger turned and looked at her.

She felt a shiver of fear. Her
rescuer would have continued to pummel her assailant if she had not intervened.
She could trust him even less than Lord Fogge. The man was tall and
well-muscled, wearing a leather jerkin over a dark shirt. His bright blond hair
was long and shaggy, as if he’d been traveling for some time. Then their gazes
met, and Margery forgot to breathe.

She would recognize those intense
eyes anywhere.

He was Gareth Beaumont, the boy
from her childhood.

Shock and disbelief made her
freeze. Not a week went by that she didn’t wonder what had become of him. Almost
without thinking, she reached for the purse hung from her belt, and touched the
crystal stone through the fabric.

She’d never been able to forget the
way his golden eyes seemed to glow with a light of their own. But now a
coldness lurking behind those eyes made her realize he was no longer the boy
she knew.

She stepped back, barely able to
take in the man he had become. He was sun-burnished, golden, his nose straight
and strong, his cheekbones as chiseled as if carved by a sculptor. He was so
beautifully rendered, yet so male, that it made her uneasy. And in that moment,
she felt small and dark and sinful, unworthy to even look upon such perfection.
What would he think of her if he knew her secrets?

But this was foolishness. Gareth
Beaumont needed to know nothing of her past. He was no longer her childhood
friend, but a stranger passing through her land.

And then she remembered the ignoble
rumors that had chased him from the country. He was said to be a vicious
opponent in battle, who won at any cost.

He, too, was assessing her, staring
into her face, then glancing down her body, leaving a searing path in her
flesh. She was shocked and unnerved, aware of him suddenly as a man and not a
memory. It showed what kind of woman she’d become, how easily the heat of
desire consumed her.

But every man looked on her with a
covetous bent, and she was disappointed that Gareth was no better.

“Margery.”

“Gareth Beaumont, can it really be
you? I have not seen you in—”

“Twelve years.” His voice was deep,
rumbling, as unnerving as his face.

She swallowed. “What have you been
doing for all these years?”

“I’ve been traveling through Europe.”

She hesitated, then asked bravely, “Doing
what?”

He just stared at her in that cool
way of his, and she didn’t think he’d answer.

“There is money to be earned at
tournaments, and noblemen to work for,” he finally said. “’Tis as good a way as
any to live.”

She remembered then that his
parents had died in a fire just after he’d come to foster at her father’s
castle. The king had taken the Beaumonts’ land and possessions as payment for a
debt. Gareth had no home, no family. It was sometimes so easy for her to take
her brothers’ love for granted.

There was a long, awkward silence.

“Did you like Europe better than
England?” she asked, then wanted to wince at her inanity.

“Yes.”

She had heard that he had not left
the country willingly. She had so many questions, but how to ask without
inviting his scrutiny of her life?

“Then why did you come here?”
Margery finally said.

“You are in danger.”

Her mouth dropped open in surprise
and she sat down heavily on the bench. Her hands started to tremble, but she
forced herself to calm down. He could know nothing.

He remained standing, his hands
joined behind his back, staring at her with his chilly gaze. He didn’t look
like he wanted to help her, or even be there at all.

“How do you know such a thing?” she
whispered. She remembered the fateful night of her father’s death. Gareth had
come to her room when she’d been in danger then.

“I heard things in London.”

She felt the doubts creeping into
her mind. Where had he been? What had he been doing? He might have saved her
life once, but she could hardly trust him now—she could trust no one.

She sighed. “Yes, I am much the
talk at court.”

“Why?”

“It is complicated. But I assure
you, I am not in any danger.” She tried to give him a bright smile, but knew it
looked forced.

“Then why was that man chasing you?”
he asked dryly.

“For a simple kiss.” She laughed. “Surely
you have tried to steal a kiss or two from a pretty maiden yourself.”

She thought he would smile. Instead,
he raised one eyebrow. “I’ve never had to.”

Her smile died. Of course he’d
never had to. He was as beautiful as a statue of an angel.

In her brittle voice, Gareth could
hear the truth: Margery was lying. She avoided looking at him for too long. Why
was part of him disappointed? He knew what kind of family she came from: a
family that rewarded kindness with banishment. What lessons had she learned
from brothers such as hers?

She jumped up from the bench, and
the sun slanting through the trees painted flickering patterns across her face
and dress. Her steps were not delicate and ladylike; she paced like a woman
with much on her mind. She was clearly trying to keep something hidden.

But still he was a man, and as she
walked before him, he reluctantly noticed the grace of her movements. Her
strides kicked her pale yellow skirts out before her, leading him to imagine
the length of her legs. He broke into a sweat. This was not the way he meant to
think of Margery.

Her waist was long and slender,
cinched in fabric that molded upward to cup her breasts. Her collarbones arced
out like the wings of a bird, and her neck had the unbending grace of a tall
woman at ease with her height. Her long hair, dark brown, was pulled back from
her face by a yellow ribbon.

And what a striking face Margery
had. Her deep blue eyes flashed with intelligence above fine cheekbones. He
stared at her mouth and told himself he was unaffected. But the little girl she’d
been in his mind was gone, replaced by a woman—and she was as yet unmarried.

He suddenly realized she’d been
talking. “What did you say?”

“I asked you to stop staring at me.”
She put her fists on her waist and leaned toward him.

He kept his eyes on her face and
not her gaping bodice. “You have changed.”

Her face blanched. She stepped
backward, and her arms slid up to hug herself. She was frightened, and that
made him even more suspicious.

“I have not changed much,” she said
coldly. “And neither have you. I recognized you immediately.”

He pointedly glanced down her body
before saying, “I have changed a great deal—do not forget that. But one thing
that hasn’t changed is the oath I swore to your father. You need protection,
whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Gareth, I am fine,” Margery said
between gritted teeth. “But please come stay at Hawksbury and rest before you
travel on.”

He said nothing.

She looked over her shoulder. “My
horse is beyond those trees. Ride with me back to the castle; you must be
hungry.”

As they walked through the woods,
Gareth thought again of her startled face when he’d said she’d changed. She
must have been so protected behind castle walls that she thought the world’s
cruelty could never touch her. How naive she was.

She came to a stop so quickly he
almost bumped into her. He could see the road just ahead through the trees.

“My horse—” she began, then
stopped.

It was nowhere to be found.

He quirked an eyebrow. “I assume it
was tethered beside your suitor’s?”

“Of course, but Lord Fogge wouldn’t…”
Her voice trailed off and she sighed.

“Your horse is probably waiting for
you at the castle,” he said.

She turned around to face him,
wearing another forced smile. “I seem to need your help again. Would you mind
sharing your horse?”

Reluctantly, he gave a low whistle,
and his gray stallion came crashing through the underbrush.

Margery raised her eyebrows. “That
is very impressive,” she said dryly.

Gareth lifted his hands to help
her, but she put her foot in the stirrup and swung her leg up over the saddle. As
she sat down, her skirts settled over the horse like a blanket, revealing her
lower legs encased in men’s boots.

“Are you coming?” she asked,
wearing what was obviously a smile of pride at her horsemanship.

He stood beside her leg, looking up
into her face. Unwanted memories flooded through his mind, and he felt a
momentary uncertainty. In a low voice, he said, “Do you remember the last time
you rode my horse?”

Her forehead wrinkled with a frown.
“Yes. My father had given you your own horse, and I wanted to ride it, too. The
silly animal dumped me headfirst into the pond.”

Gareth still had a vivid memory of
Margery rising sputtering to the surface as he’d splashed out to rescue her. Every
memory of her involved either rescuing her or escaping her.

“Well, that will not happen anymore,”
she said, and with a dig of her heels rode off down the path.

He watched as she bent low over the
animal’s neck. He grudgingly noticed the flare of her hips and her competent
seat in the saddle. At least she was not a pointlessly dainty woman; her
brothers had done something right.

She finally turned back and raced
toward him. He didn’t move as she pulled up within feet of him, haughty, proud
of herself.

She shouldn’t be, since she couldn’t
even protect herself. She needed a man for that—and maybe she needed a man to
teach her a lesson.

Without a word, Gareth swung up
behind her. He heard her gasp softly as he squeezed into the saddle, bringing
them in intimate contact. He rested his hands on her waist, feeling the slight
curve of her stomach against the tips of his fingers.

She had to learn that most men were
bigger and stronger than she was.

But while he was trying to prove
her frailty to her, he couldn’t help but breathe in the scent of her hair. The
warmth from her body melded with his. The urge to trail his lips down her neck
was powerful, primitive, almost too compelling to resist. He hated feeling out
of control, pulled along by a woman’s wiles. If his thoughts went any further,
she’d know exactly what he was thinking by the pressure of his hips against
hers.